Box
by Twilight Hours
Summary: Sam goes through detox again.


Supernatural doesn't belong to me; and there are nasty words and images in this one so heads up. Decided to join in with 200 Themes by Werewolf's One. The theme is 178. Seeing Red. Might go back and add to this.

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—Blood. Pain, excruciating — _out of crucifixion, beyond it, oh god nailed to a cross with blood pouring from _— and unbearable, more blood— it's everywhere, running out of his eyes and mouth and nose and _everywhere, _vomiting out of the walls and ceiling—He's closed in; a monstrously claustrophobic cage, his limbs so crammed together that they snap, crunch together, and—so much blood. His? _The fucking world's. _He's trapped and there's an apocalypse in this box with him. He drowns in the blood.

—Heat. Pounds and pounds of it are rolling over him, smothering him violently. It comes from him, he can feel it. His black eyes are burning and heat gushes out of them. His insides are magma, his breath is as hot as Hell, he can see— gusts of steam and flies and disease and _wrong, _all now warming around his cage. He can see only heat, he can see red and— red. He burns to death from the inside out.

—Restraint. The prison is too small for him now, not with the apocalypse and Hell in here with him. _Three wrongs doesn't make redemption. _So instead his lungs collapse and fold in, and he crushes his windpipe with his hands and scratches out his vocal chords just to make room. Agonizing— there are thick straps, restraining him, keeping everything fucked up and out of commission. He's being quartered, practically, and the straps start to tighten and sink into his flesh. He suffocates.

—Sulfur. There is no blood anymore, just sulfur oozing out of every orifice— it's deadly, he can smell it, it's World War I all over again and he can smell his own body rotting. The hole in his neck is proof, the flies coming out of his intestines and laying eggs in his skin, hatching maggots that eat his tendons, it's. Proof. The sulfur is proof. His black eyes are proof. It's all proof. He decays.

Wrongwrongwrong, something is wrong. Nothi- everything is moving, in such a sickening way that he pukes. It's the most irrational pace, slow yet fast, then slow, then fast, he's losing his sanity just knowing such a movement exists. He knows it like he knows he never had any sanity to begin with, or at least thinks so— but he can't. It's the movement of Hell, and it damns him. Wrong, he finally thinks, because four times and suddenly he's not dying anymore.

He's screaming now, like someone who hasn't ripped apart his own throat for maggots to feast on. It's Latin, he _knows, _because he only knows Latin. He screams it, and it's bloodcurdling, or he'd like to think so, because he can see the blood curdle on the wall and in his veins, he can feel it, congealing. Something's clawing at him everywhere, and his hands are guiltily innocent since he can see black webs of something else run over the tendons of each finger. He screams like it's religion itself.

It's quiet. He feels a little tug at his heart, but besides that all is still. It's silent —he doesn't think — almost like the calm before the stor- jerking suddenly to the side, his body thrashes, and the straps are back to slicing him open. There's a small pause, then his body is being hooked and ripped in all directions, the restraints— give way in a gory _snap,_ bloody splatters of tissue and muscle flying from the sudden release of the hostage. He doesn't know. If he's controlling it, if it's another demon, if he's dying or already dead. He's rammed against the suffocating walls at the speed of sound, over and over and over and over and each time a sickening crunch resounds from his corpse and the blood stains get larger. Explosions of glass shatter the bruised remains of his mind and his eardrums burst. But all he can see is black. All he can smell is sulfur.

Immediately— or centuries later, they stop. "They, they, they, they they they—" he prays repetitively, as loud as the suffocating bubbles of blood can allow. He screams it enough and his torn tongue trips; the words warp and turn into Dad Dad Dad Dad Dad Dad Dad demon demon dem- de- de- Dean Dean _Dean _DEANDEANDEANDEANDEEEEE he starts wondering and wonders if Dean can hear him or if it's still in his head—

"Sam."

And there it is. There _he_ is. Dean. As clear as the reflection of Ruby's knife, as clear as a delicious pool of blood. He begins an exorcism.

"Shut the hell up, Sam. Exorcisms don't work on the one performing them."

"_Tunc vos tractare is._"

So his brother does. The results are instant; his agony returns, or it never left and he didn't realize, but it's here and his skin is being peeled off by gravel and disease-ridden glass. All of it lodges safely in his flesh, and he's not sure what's more painful, the exorcism or being dragged through a junkyard by his brother. By— he thinks it's by his left arm, because he's not sure his right arm is attached enough to drag it, and his face is being pried open by a larger piece of glass that plants itself firmly into his eye. It's big enough that it sinks in from above his brow to his jaw line, leaving a grotesquely jagged gap deep enough that he can stick his tongue through the opening and taste the sick ground. A flick of metal pierces his tongue in half and he can taste gasoline.

His remains are crammed back into a box, a hell chamber, maybe an incinerator. He cries when his brother leaves him and tries to reach out after him but it's no use, his arms stopped working after a particularly large chunk of windshield ripped his bicep and rendered both arms useless. Several people visited him to leave morbid, violent monologues and take a bite of his corpse or stab him in the heart. He doesn't bother paying attention because it's already happened before, countless times, and the pain speaks louder. He's a bleeding, pulpy shell, hollow of organs and feelings, when Lilith comes in and devours the babies he could have saved, baby Sammy himself, and that's when he wakes up.


End file.
